Men were always kissing her ankles. She’s not sure when this started. They'd make their way down her body inspecting the indent of her curved hip or the rough edges of her knees, but all of them paused with significance to place a kiss just there at one of her ankles. So what might’ve been an impulsive and sensual gesture from one man had become routine for them all. It wasn't always the same ankle or at the same place, but there was too much coincidence in the gesture for her to ignore.

Had every straight man watched the same porn? Made the same mental note? Even worse, upon pressing their lips against the bone or the flesh at her ankle, they all, without exception, looked up at her. This was too much. Did they hope to catch a rapturous expression on her face caused by a mere kiss to the ankle? The thing was there might've been such a moment—the first time or even the second, but after the third man made aggressive eye contact with her from where he crouched on the floor between her legs, she'd intentionally kept her face blank, looked away. Thankfully once this rite was completed they would immediately commence with the fucking.

The best lovers, she’d discovered, were the men who were so accomplished every maneuver was finely calibrated to produce pleasure. She knew they’d learned those rhythms from years of carnal experience, but didn’t hold all those orgasms against them. Sadly, they were only useful for sex; they became unreliable, erratic even, before the sweat had cooled on her skin. The next best lovers were the men who wanted, with all they possessed, to please, who watched and could change their course of action to match her responses. Neither of these kinds of men were punctual ankle kissers. No, that was a third category, one she thought she’d learned to discern, but obviously hadn’t from their sudden proliferation in her bed.

The ankle kissing was not unpleasant. In the vast universe of what men attempted to please women during sex, a kiss on the ankle was in fact a young star with a long life. She was not prone to vanity, but she was often glad to live in a time and place where bare ankles were not considered offensive and forced underneath stockings or the long hems of dresses. Usually she delighted in men who could see both the trees and the forest. No, the ankle kissing bothered her, because the act reminded her how often she was forced to watch them try, that she was the kind of person who was critical even in such an intimate moment, that even her pleasure came with censor.

::

About the Author: Monet Patrice Thomas is a writer currently living in Beijing. More fiction by Monet can be found online at Split Lip Magazine and Pithead Chapel. Nonfiction and poetry can be found at Word Riot, Hobart, Sundog Lit, Cobalt Review & Nailed Magazine. It may be easier to visit her website: www.monetpatricethomas.com. Or find her carousing on Twitter @monetwithlove.